“Have you received word on whether or not they have accepted my payment yet?”

Organizationally a perfectionist, he presses the phone to his ear as he single-handedly scrolls through the electronic venue layout and highlights each box that he desires to have held and reserved; as the vice shuffles around on the other line, he catches the crisp, fluttering sound of papers being rifled through. “Not yet,” he is told from the other line. “I will be sure to send you an email with the results if they do decide to phone the office with a response. In the event that they do not contact us again, what would you like for me to do, sir?”

His fingers still across the trackpad where they had been softly slipping along the sheened plastic. He supposes that, of course, they could wait it out to see if a response will be delivered at all, but he knows that time is a ticking bomb, and he has never had very much luck when waiting for time’s word over his own. “Call them back,” he speaks into the receiver, lifting a hand to rub over his eyes briefly as it has gotten very late, and sleep has begun to tug at his eyelids. “And ask them what has become of the Huang case.”

His vice laughs on the other line, airy and dry, before saying, “What are you going to do about that girl?”

Expression tensing, his throat works in a brief swallow. “What girl?” He asks, attempting to feign ignorance and act like he has no idea which girl his vice is referring to, for he works with many girls, hundreds, even. “I know many girls.”

“Don’t play stupid, Yifan,” his vice mumbles on the other line, not having bought the card trick even in the slightest. “That Huang girl. What are you doing to do about her in regards to this case - are you going to tell her?”

“Of course not,” he responds quickly, roughly. “It is not her immediate concern. She has more important matters to attend to, including this show and performing to the highest capability she could possibly encompass.”

“It does concern her, though, does it not?” His vice asks, voice smooth. “As your employee, does it not occur to you that she deserves the bare-minimum amount of respect involved to be informed about matters that immediately involve her?”

Fingers falling away from the forgotten trackpad, he sighs, leaning his forehead into stressed fingers as his elbows find stability on his knees. “I cannot tell her right now,” he settles with saying. “If I receive confirmation that they have accepted my payment and successfully wired the account, then I may inform her of what has happened. Until then, I would prefer to not cause a disturbance.”

There is creaking beneath the background noise, as though his vice had settled back into an old wooden chair, before his vice says, “And what are you going to do about your bias?”

“I have no bias,” he responds quickly. “I am not… I will not make the same mistake a second time. Not when it does nothing but cause those around me to suffer.”

A breathy sigh, crackling as it’s blown right into the receiver. “Understood, sir. I will see to it that I get in contact with them first thing tomorrow morning and I will send you an email with the results of the phone call. Enjoy the show tomorrow, sir, and stay safe.”

“Will do, Yixing,” he sighs. “Will do.”

“Yingtao,” Minseo complains softly, as she shakes his shoulders to wake him. “Yingtao, get up - it’s time to get ready.”

Zitao groans into his pillow, hugging it close to him as his long hair pours over his face and brushes along his cheeks, having been much too afraid to remove them around actual women and instead, having left them in out of sheer carefulness. “Five more minutes,” he whines into his pillow, but Minseo is insistent and begins shaking his shoulders with more gusto.

“No five more minutes,” Minseo giggles above him, attempting to flip him over onto his back where he’d been sprawled out on his stomach. “We have to be at the venue in two hours.”

Against his own will, Zitao cracks open his eyes to look up at her sleepily and yawns into his pillow. She’s stood over him in a bathrobe, perhaps having just taken a shower, and Amber and Baekhee are sat on the opposite bed chatting to each other as a hairdryer hums in Amber’s hands where she’s brushing the other girl’s long, curly hair out. “What time is it?” He asks groggily, voice a little bit deeper than usual. Perhaps with Amber having a deeper voice, also, it might be easier around them to let his guard slightly down. 

“It’s almost noon,” Minseo laughs, and Zitao watches as she places her hands on her hips as though waiting for him to get up and out of bed. “We have to be at the venue at one-thirty. Did you not get the email?”

Oh. Zitao hadn’t thought to check his email yesterday, having been too preoccupied with speaking to his mother on the phone and reassuring her that he made it safely to Shanghai and that he was in good hands. Pushing his comforter back, he yawns and stretches as he sits up. “I didn’t think about it,” he admits. “Sorry, I should go shower and get ready.”

“Don’t sweat it, Yingtao,” Baekhee tells him with a smile across the room, and Zitao notices that she is in a white bathrobe, as well. “You were upset last night, it’s understandable. That’s why we let you sleep in a little bit longer.”

Still, Zitao hates to feel as though he were forcing the three of them to wait on him. He apologizes as he gets out of bed and stretches once more, sleep snapping free from his muscles and melting down his limbs, and he moves over to his nightstand to collect what he needs for a shower - when he realizes that he actually has no idea what to wear. Were they dress-coded for this event? Sure, Zitao knows that the walk will include them all wearing the president’s most recent brand launch, but are they supposed to wear something specific when showing up and possibly being critiqued by experienced professionals? 

Confused, he sinks his teeth down into his bottom lip as he glances over his shoulder. “Hey,” he calls out, and the girls gaze at him from where they’d been collecting their own outfits to wear - possibly to change right here in the middle of the hotel room, which Zitao is not used to. “I, um… do you know what we’re supposed to wear?”

Lips pursing, Minseo is the one to respond as she shakes her head and brushes the twill of a crisp blouse in her hands. “Nothing in particular, but the email said to make sure it was both professional and characteristic. Not a hundred percent sure what that means, but it probably means like - don’t wear a secretary’s get-up with a pencil skirt and a matching blazer, but also don’t dress like you may go out clubbing.”

“Usually that just means to wear something well-coordinated according to your color palette that suits your body very well in a professional manner,” Amber explains with a deeper tone than the rest, and Zitao begins to understand it a little bit more. “So, for example, what is professional and classic on me would be a pair of ironed slacks, a blouse, a brimmed hat. Things that you look exceptionally good in that reflect your personality, without being too informal.” 

“Oh,” he comments softly, and he thinks he gets it now. However, there’s still just one problem - he still has very little idea of how to coordinate outfits. “Um… could someone help me?”

At that, Amber’s brows turn downward. “Help you?”

“I’ll do it!” Minseo cheers out in excitement, arm raised and lips parted, and Zitao watches as she sets down the blouse she had been holding as she skitters over to him where he’s opening the walk-in to rifle through his clothing, all hung up with no color coordination to their organization. “Do you have your color palette?” She asks, and Zitao does - he had put it in the closet, on the top shelf by a box of Baekhee’s jewelry, and he slips the booklet from the shelf and hands it to her. “Alright, and what style do you like to wear the most?”

He blinks, mind flatlining. Styles? Zitao doesn’t know anything about styles. 

Awkwardly, Minseo stares at him for a very long moment as she expects an answer, and Zitao is forced to tell her that he doesn’t know. At this, she lets out a curt little sigh and presses her curved lips together in a tight line. “Okay,” she huffs out with a soft breath and flips open the pages of the booklet in her hands to read over Zitao’s assigned colors. She is quiet as she runs her fingers along the fabrics of Zitao’s female clothing hanging up on the bar, tisking to herself softly as she passes each article. 

Then - as she’s passing the threshold which separates Zitao’s section of clothing from her own - she turns to him with a smirk, and Zitao doesn’t very much like the plotting look in her eye. “Or,” she smiles at him, a trick up her sleeve, and Zitao falls silent, “I could customize you into something that will get the president’s attention.”

He grimaces at the mention of the president’s crush on him once again, and he really would prefer to not think about something like that right now because he knows that they are probably just imagining things, because, after all, hadn’t he sort-of-debunked this himself already? The president practically admitted to him - although in riddles - that his special treatment was because of his mother being terminally ill. He really wishes that people wouldn’t mistake something like that for the guy housing feelings for him, for he doesn’t think his heart could take the disappointment and embarrassment of being turned down. “Please stop that,” he asks her nicely with a tensed expression, voice strained. “That… assumption.”

“What assumption?” She asks as her hand falls away from one of Zitao’s sweaters. “We were telling you the truth, Yingtao. Do you really want to turn down someone like the president? He’s gorgeous, after all, why would you say no to dating him?”

“He doesn’t want to date me,” Zitao sighs, wishing that he could get it through the girls. “You’re all just looking too deeply into this, really. I’m an apprentice and he’s giving me extra leeway because of that.”

“Yes, but why else would you be placed directly into Marketing?” Minseo asks him. “It’s too unlike him to do something like that.”

“Well, my mother is dying,” he shrugs. “There’s an idea.”

The girl’s lips purse as she glances back at the hung clothing just beneath her fingertips, as though she hadn’t thought about that. “It’s not like him,” she repeats, “even if your mother is very sick. He doesn’t just do that kind of thing easily.”

Zitao sighs, then, and shakes his head. “Look, can you just help me pick out something to wear? I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Minseo apologizes to him and resumes helping pick something out for him, and she simply lifts the hangers from the bar as she piles the clothes onto her open forearm before she hands them to him in a pile. “Here you go,” she offers him an apologetic grin as he takes the clothing from her, something denim mixed with something pastel pink, and he joins them with the clean and brassiere set that he’s got in his hand. “There should be plenty of hot water since we all showered a while ago. Oh, and because this is your first show, you should know - the president wants all of us bare-faced and our hair completely unstyled, so make sure not to put any product in it when you’re done, okay?”

Soaking up the statement as his thumb runs gently over the clothes pressed to his bosom, he nods, and Minseo leaves him be to go shower and, having not had time to wash them ahead of time, Zitao leaves his extensions in as he shampoos his hair and leans back to rinse beneath the faucet. 

Had they really all meant what they said? Sure, Zitao knows from his mother’s soliloquies that love can be entirely unexpected, and can even occur at first sight, but why would it be him of all people that this kind of love occurs to? Him, someone who would lead the president on should he engage in any kind of fathomable relationship with him because Zitao is a man and the president, as far as he knows, is generally into women. Whether solely or coupled with other genders, he is unsure, but Zitao doesn’t know how the man seeks out his partners. 

As he conditions the soaked extensions he’s unclipped from his head and gathered in his hand, he finds it hard to pinpoint any excitement in the impending dress rehearsal, and sequentially, the show, for Zitao is now nervous to even so much as face the president. What happens if the girls had been telling him the truth, and what happens if he actually sees the president staring at him? He’s afraid to meet those soft yet sharp eyes, for he’s worried that if he does, he may fall completely into a passion that he had only gotten a glimpse of on the plane. 

And what happens, if this all may be true about the president having spurred feelings for him upon first glance, if Zitao is turned down should the man hold a fear of commitment due to the passing of his late wife? Of course, he has to agree with Minseo because the man is very attractive, Zitao experiences that every single time they come within feet of each other’s personal space, but does it matter? For even should he say yes to getting asked into a relationship, what happens if the president finds out that he has been lying all along about who he is? Zitao sighs, for he doesn’t know.

Tell me, Mochou, he monologues as he runs his hair extensions underneath the pour of the faucet and tousles them with his thumb to clean them. What kind of person was your husband, and what was it like to love him?

With a heavy heart, Zitao dresses and brushes through his hair as he blow-dries it, and finds himself sighing at the young man that he sees in the mirror. Why would the president fall for somebody who looks like him beneath the makeup and beneath the disguise? There are so many women much more beautiful than he who exists in this firm, so why would it be him who is felt for?

He dreads the confirmation of whether or not the president’s feelings are fact rather than myth, as Zitao can’t bear to think of breaking the man’s heart by revealing his true identity, especially not after the man had already lost one love.

As he clips his extensions back into place and straightens the top layer of his hair to blend them in, he sighs once more, secretly wishing he didn’t have to do this. 

“Yingtao,” Minseo knocks on the bathroom door from outside, and Zitao can hear the tinkling of car keys in somebody’s hand behind the muffled voice. “It’s time to head out. Are you ready?”

Glancing down at himself to zip up the fly on his denim skirt that cinches his embroidered blouse at the waist and flounces around his upper calves, he soaks up the sight of himself in the wall mirror beside the shower. “Yeah,” he calls out softly as he smooths out the clothes on his body and adjusts his pads with his palms, once again ready to face the world as a woman. “I’m coming.”

The dress rehearsal proves to be intensely overwhelming. 

The venue is absolutely massive, the amphitheater within it slightly smaller with a wrap-around stage that curves in a cul de sac formation, returning to the backstage as the exit joins the entry. Around the curve of the stage sit rows of seats, where just in a few hours, hundreds of photographers and potentially other designers as well as professional critics will sit and will watch their performances. Within the curve of the stage is an equipment booth complete with a control center and a sound mixer - are they going to have some kind of music?

As Zitao takes it all in, however, standing on the mouth of the stage just outside the backstage curtain, he finds himself breathless. The lights shine in his eyes, sparkling all along the vast ceiling like brilliant stars, and he finds himself blinded by them if he stares for too many seconds. 

Yet - as he stands among the bunch, dazzling red-tones having been dusted across his eyelids and his cheeks and lips, his long hair having been styled up into delicate waves that part at his crown and pour down his shoulders in a long ponytail, his bangs having been curled to gently curtain over his forehead - he feels unerringly masculine. When the girls had told him to dress formally yet characteristically, he had trusted them to know exactly what that meant, when, save for Amber and her more androgynous views on fashion, Zitao feels entirely underdressed. 

Each and every girl is dressed in expensive-looking sparkling gowns, some ruched with tulle at the feet and some strapless and glistening along the bodice with gems and stones, some in the highest heels Zitao feels he’s ever seen, and he’s left to stand awkwardly - in a chic little blouse with cuffed sleeves and a corset-waisted denim skirt with flouncing ruches at the hem that brush along his calves - and feels as though he was preparing to embark on a picnic beneath the sunset. 

The girls really must not have been kidding when they offered to help him catch the president’s eye.

And on top of that, Zitao doesn’t know how it will possible to not meet the president’s eye, for he’s never seen the man dressed like this - his broad chest exposed in a deep slit as his mulberry pinstriped blouse remains half-buttoned beneath a black suit jacket with creamy white edging and matching berry-colored embroidered initials on the upper , his slacks buckled around his hips and tapered along the legs that seem to make them go on forever. His hair is styled up and to the side, sprayed meticulously into a handsomely-tousled coif, shimmering silver earrings dancing along his earlobes and the length of his lower auricles as he glances up from his clipboard with shadowed eyes, his eyebrows sharp where they’ve been filled in and the outer corners of his eyes extended where the dark burgundy shadow had been dragged. Gulping, Zitao nearly loses his breath when the president glances up at him with rigid eyes before his gaze flicks back to the clipboard, as though taking roll. 

As Zitao stands around and waits for instruction, he feels the tug of a hand on his shirt sleeve and glances over to see Minseo pulling at him to get his attention, and he greets her silently with a forced curl of his lips. “What’s the matter?” He asks her softly, not wanting to speak too loudly should the president decide that he is not a fan of company chatter. 

She’s got a shifty little smile on her face as her rosy cheeks gleam beneath the lights. It’s only after she’s glanced around to make sure nobody was closely eavesdropping that she leans in and whispers, “Have you see how Mr. Wu is dressed?”

As he pulls away, he sighs, gently tugging his arm back as he looks at her with a stressed expression. “Can you guys please stop?” He asks out of slight desperation. “Really, please just leave it alone. He doesn’t like me that way.”

She tisks at him, then, her lip curling upward. “Hey, don’t be so prickly. Good luck tonight, alright? Make your man proud.”

“Stop,” Zitao reiterates, the corners of his lips attempting to curl. “I’m serious.”

“Alright, alright,” Minseo feigns truce as she holds up spread palms, inching backward to give Zitao personal space. “I’ll drop it. He’s still cute, though.”

Zitao sighs as he hears a loud knocking sound, repetitive in manner, and glances over to the foot of the stage to watch as the president taps his knuckles noisily against the back of his clipboard to gain their attention. He watches, silent, as the girls scurry over to the edge of the stage with their dresses gathered in their hands, and Zitao shivers under the weight of several agitated stares, and he, against his original will, feels very much like a sore thumb. 

As he joins the rest of them on the edge of the stage, some sinking to their knees to lower their legs off of the stage to dangle, he watches as the president scans his eyes over all of them, perhaps double-checking his roll, and Zitao hates that the president’s eyes seem to linger on him for a second longer than the rest. 

“It seems,” the president announces boldly, loud in the empty space as the whispering surrounding Zitao simmers down, “that everybody has taken my advice seriously and has shown up on time, which I greatly appreciate. Thank you for being so punctual, ladies, for it reflects your applicant mediocrity when faced with a new employer. As you know, I would like to run quickly through one last walk before the show starts in one hour. Assuming that you all have memories as adroit as I prefer to believe, please get into line in your appropriately assigned positions.”

Around him, the girls quietly shuffle into a line beginning several feet back on the leftmost hemisphere of the stage, and Zitao awkwardly stumbles out of the way of several girls who brush past him with perturbation-filled eyes. Okay, so he was number… what?

Behind Yooyoung and in front of Dasom… or was it behind Dasom and in front of Yooyoung?

His eyes glisten as he watches Dasom file into line in her spot, but which one was Yooyoung? Lips trembling as he walks forward without aim, Zitao doesn’t know. Out of pure fear that the president may get angry and accuse him of having a terrible memory, he shuffles in front of Dasom and prays that the girl who stands in front of him is Yooyoung. 

The president guides them through a final practice walk on the curved stage, yet with the limited space that they are allotted to walk, the distances between each person have been significantly diminished and it’s only then, as the president watches how each model fares with the change, that the talent gaps become very much evident between the two departments. 

“Stop,” he calls out, and the girls stop where they had been circling the rounded stage. He orders them to re-file and resume their place in line before Zitao watches the man walk over to them, clipboard in hand, as he stares at them for a very long moment.

Suddenly self-conscious, Zitao can’t help but feel like it might be him that is being stared at, like he’s perhaps made a mistake that he doesn’t usually make and had messed everything up, his inexperience showing. Yet, as he holds his breath, hands trembling minutely at his sides as the president eyes each of them up, gaze unhappily shifting from girl to girl, he realizes that it must not solely be him that is to blame. 

Then the president speaks and Zitao had almost forgotten how bold the man’s voice can be as he says, “I am unsatisfied with the line order. Forgive me for the last-minute change, but I would like to regroup all of you.”

As the girls sigh around him, tension visibly snapping free from their joints as they roll their shoulders and their eyes, Zitao finds himself jittering with anxiety. How is he supposed to memorize a new partner for a show that starts in literally an hour?

As the chatter arises among those around him once more, Zitao bites down on his lower lip and watches the president flip back a sheet on his clipboard as he reads down what lies beneath it, and Zitao wonders if it may be a list, or perhaps an attendance sheet. When he looks up from the sheet, he calls out, “Miss Yang Dasom,” and as Zitao glances over at his minutes-ago partner, the president continues with, “please move to the front behind Miss Amber Liu.” 

Silently, the girls watch as Dasom and Amber step out of their spots in line to move to the very front, and Zitao wonders just what exactly the readjustment of the talent gap means - does that mean those with the most attractive walks will be in the front, and those who struggle will be in the back? Zitao lets out a small sigh and decides he’d better get comfortable, for he knows he will be placed probably all the way in the back.

“Miss Huang Yingtao,” he hears and very nearly leaps right out of his skin. As he pokes his head out from over top Yooyoung’s shoulder, the president meets his gaze. “Please stand behind Miss Yang.” 

His lips separate with a small sound as time begins to fizzle around him, and the astonishing whispers once again begin to resonate into a low-decibel din as he feels eyes on him. Is he… really being put in the very front? No, there’s no way.

Awkwardly, he steps out of line and instinctively bows as he moves behind Dasom, and exhales shakily as though having been choked. As he trembles in his spot, Dasom turns slightly on her heel to glance over his shoulder at him and whispers, “Good luck, Yingtao.”

Wide-eyed and surprised, Zitao nods jerkily as he thanks her.

Then - “Miss Jung,” and Zitao’s throat runs dry as he glances over, and the look in the girl’s eyes scares him. “Please stand behind Miss Huang.” 

If Zitao had been anywhere near wary that the girls had been telling him the truth about Jessica holding something against him, he holds no wariness anymore as she lifts up the tulle of her dress and tosses the president a sugary grin before her expression practically melts away from her skin when she looks over at him and her lips curl in what Zitao could swear was a scowl. As soon as he registers it, though, she is already behind him in place, and he has to resist rubbing his eyes as to not mess up his makeup, or else he just might have to in order to reassure himself that he’s not just imagining things. 

Although he would absolutely love to kiss his own and think that the president had organized them in order of how talented each girl is, the aura radiating off of Jessica behind him chills him, and he shivers in his thin pink blouse and rakes his palms up his arms as though the room were too cold. 

Why, oh why, did it have to be him who stirs up trouble? All he wanted was help for his mother.

Zitao doesn’t enjoy listening to the rest of the line-up, especially being all the way in the front and therefore being unable to reach out to touch one of his friend’s hands for just a smidge of added support. From this far up, he has no idea how his friends are feeling - what if they, too, are upset that he was put in the very front?

From his recollection, Dasom is a very talented model, but so is Jessica, and he knows that there’s no way he could be anywhere near either of their expertise, so what makes him so special that he’s on par with them in this very moment?

Then, his eyes widen. It can’t be that so-called crush that the president has on him, it just can’t be. Zitao had been given very strict rules upon applying that he would be judged fairly and that the workload he would face would be more intense than that anybody else in the firm had experienced since he had started completely from scratch. 

After several moments, Zitao safely assumes that the line has been fully reorganized when the president comes back into view, stepping around the narrow curve of the front of the stage where it loops after the strait, eyes trained on his reorganization of his employees as the clipboard has slackened in his hand, and Zitao watches as the man takes a graceful, handsome seat in one of the designated chairs in the very front row, having been marked with a white marker tag on the front of each backrest. “Alright,” the president calls out genially. “I have reorganized you to the best of my own as well as your own capabilities; those with quicker steps have been moved to the front, and those with slower steps have been moved to the back. Now, I would like for all of you to take a minimum and maximum of ten steps backward so that we may get one more practice walk in and so that I may see how this new set-up cooperates. Go on, move back.”

Zitao does as he’s been told, shuffling backward as the girls behind him move, as well.

“Good,” the president commends them as he charmingly tosses one leg over the other, the leg of his trousers pulling upward to expose one round ankle beneath a black calf sock. “Now, I would like for you all to walk as you would while keeping at least six inches between each of you so that I may see how this coordination operates. Go on.”

in a breath, Zitao begins to walk, keeping in time with Dasom in front of him. 

The stage is long but not that much so - a full walk-around would take maybe a total of twenty seconds without stopping, Zitao knows. As they had not been instructed to stop and to merely continue unerringly, Zitao has no plans of stopping as the bend approaches and he watches as Amber, all the way in the front as though line-leader, begins to round the turn.

That is until something forcefully collides with the pillar of his shoe’s heel and he feels it snap beneath him and his ankle rolls as he tumbles, legs first, down the harsh edge of the stage and onto the waxed floor below, and he cries out in pain as he hears the slap of the president’s clipboard onto the flooring as tears spring to his eyes. It hurts, it hurts, and he grabs at his ankle in desperation as white-hot pain spikes up his leg and fizzles in his joints. 

“Yingtao!” Someone screeches behind him, another girl, and through the pain and the tears, Zitao can’t make out whether it’s Minseo or Baekhee or Dasom or perhaps somebody he doesn’t know, but the shuffling of loud, clacking shoes begins to buzz in his ears as everyone crowds around him and the president moves into his blurry view. 

“What happened?” The president asks aloud, his tone taut with concerned, and Zitao’s hands jitter around his ankle as he attempts to move it just a little bit and sobs out as the pain spikes. He watches blearily as the president’s hand reels smoothly back toward his pocket, and Zitao watches - when feminine hands bracket themselves on the sides of his upper back and he finds himself unable to care who it is holding him - as the president procures a single folded tissue from his trouser pocket, and hands it to him. 

As he takes the tissue in trembling hands and attempts to wipe away his tears,